Description Exercise

"Don't get your hopes up, kid." Emil looked up sharply, an almost guilty expression on his face. He glanced around, unable to pinpoint the raspy voice's source until the stranger spoke again. "You also might not want to assume you're alone so quickly." It became apparent that Emil's observation skills were lacking; the man sat slumped in the open confessional to his left. He couldn't have been older than thirty-five, but looked as if he'd seen enough trouble for a hundred years. His features, beneath a layer of stubble and ingrained dirt, seemed vaguely Middle Eastern. Strands of shaggy, dark hair curled around the collar of a striped shirt that might have come from the same dumpster as the dingy maroon pants. "Seen enough?" he said with a dry chuckle. Emil, a flush rising on his cheeks, realized he'd been staring. "No," the teenager replied, "I mean, yes. I mean...what are you doing here?" The question sounded childish, and as soon as he'd spoken Emil regretted it. The man shrugged and took a swig from the bottle in his left hand. "I was sleeping 'till you came in, started talking to yourself." "Sorry. I didn't know I was being so loud. Sometimes praying gets me carried away," Emil replied. To avoid staring further, he busied himself with his satchel, digging for the lost water bottle. Another hoarse laugh from the battered wooden structure made him glance up. The stranger took a silver lighter from his pocket and flicked it at his cigarette. After taking a deep drag, he spoke again. "Listen, kid, don't waste your time here. It's just another dump, and not the best in the city neither. And that guy there?" He gestured to the giant crucifix at the front of the sanctuary. "We're not his type. Look somewhere else for answers, 'cause He ain't listening."